


4th and Long

by baethoven



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Gratuitous sports talk, M/M, football au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6739468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baethoven/pseuds/baethoven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux is the General Manager of Los Angeles' newest football team, the Los Angeles Rebels, and he's not sure which part of his job is harder: his eccentric, rich boss Poe Dameron who keeps meddling in his work, or their new QB Ben Solo who has a mean throw and a meaner attitude. How are they supposed to get to a Super Bowl if Hux has to constantly babysit Ben Solo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	4th and Long

**Author's Note:**

> If there's one thing I love more than music, it's football. Here's an excuse to put all that knowledge to good use. If by some chance I shit on your football team in this, just take comfort in knowing I'm a Dallas Cowboys Fan and my life is already shit.

On a crisp Wednesday morning in Chicago, Poe Dameron walks through the streets wrapped from head to toe in scarves, a parka with a fuzzy hood, and ear muffs. He is dressed as if he is enduring the coldest winter Chicago has seen in the last century, but really it's 50F out and everyone around him is sporting t-shirts and shooting him looks like he is a walking joke. The gloves and winter wear do a good job to mask who he really is, because if anyone could see the sharp suit beneath- Armani with crisp lines that accentuate his broad shoulders and slender waist - along with his two hundred dollar haircut, they would realize pretty quickly that Poe Dameron is not just any West Coast tourist in the Windy City for the week, but that he is an _important man_. They would look at their phones and see the alerts, notice the signs flapping in the sky, and realize that the NFL Draft is tomorrow and that Poe Dameron is the owner of the league's newest expansion team, the _Los Angeles Rebels._

But no one realizes it, and they continue shuffling around him with looks of disgust as he shoves a Chicago dog in his mouth and blabbers around the peppers and pickles about how _fucking cold_ Chicago is.

"Seriously," he says, spitting out onions and mustard, "why does the NFL insist on holding the draft on the East Coast every year?"

Besides Poe, a man in a sensible turtle neck actively tries to avoid the splash zone of hot dog matter, and says tartly, "Poe, Chicago isn't on the East Coast."

"Anything east of Riverside might as well be," Poe mutters. "Who decides to build a city in the north right by a _gigantic lake_? Didn't they feel the wind chill and think, 'Hmm, maybe we should go someplace where our balls won't freeze off?"

The man next to him scowls and picks off a stray bit of relish that landed on his shoulder. "I am well aware of your sentiments about any state that _isn't_ California."

"You know, when I see the Commissioner, I'm going to talk to him about East Coast elitism and how holding the draft out here is very _alienating_ to West Coast audiences." Poe is waving his hands now, and the man next to him wisely dodges out of the way.

"Please don't," he says, "We don't exactly have the large fan base that you promised him when you talked up the expansion bid."

Poe takes one last bite of his hot dog, and mumbles, "Goddamn Angelinos," and then after a gulp, "Isn't that your problem as GM?"

An average football fan knows their team's players and coaches, the super stars in the league, and a vague knowledge of team ownership (Poe is known for being young, innovative, and crushingly attractive, and is constantly talked down to in the press because of the presumption that he does not know what he is doing- all of which is true). It takes very dedicated fans to recognize a team's General Manager, and most of the time the only one anyone can name off the top of their heads is Jerry Jones, usually accompanied by a snicker ( _'At least I'm not fucking Jerry Jones_ ' Poe has said time and time again when people criticize his ownership). So Brendol Hux, University of Southern California graduate with an MBA and current General Manager of the _Los Angeles Rebels,_ usually passes through the world unnoticed. He prefers it this way, content to do his job and work tirelessly to bring the _Rebels_ to a Super Bowl (or at least, not sitting last place in their division, _again_ ), not one for fame or spotlight. However, sometimes being GM means managing his boss as well, and he guides Poe through the streets of Chicago in hopes the he does not A) Pick a fight with one of their rivals ownership, B) pick a fight with the commissioner, or C) accidentally blather to the press about who they are going to draft with their first round pick. It is a surprisingly difficult job, with Poe's loud mouth and penchant for wandering around looking for the greasiest thing he can set his hands on (Poe is a nervous eater, and more times than not Hux has found him in the back of the ownership box inhaling shrimp cocktail and guacamole like it's his last meal). Poe has been talking nonstop since their plane landed in O'Hare, and Hux has had to _literally_ slap him whenever he mentions the draft within earshot of any nosey fan with a smartphone and a twitter account.

Hux grimaces at Poe Dameron, and says, "Phasma is in charge of promotional garbage and branding, not me."

"Brendol," Poe snaps, and Hux just _hates_ the way he says his name, like a pestering mother, "branding comes from the games we win, and last I checked, coaching and player decisions were generally _your_ job."

"It _is_ my job," Hux says, and narrowly dodges a Chicagoan in a hideous _Bears_ cap. "If you'd let me do it!"

Hux is of course referring to their contentious and heated draft pick. The _Los Angeles Rebels_ went 1-15 last season, their only win won because they played the _Dallas Cowboys_ , whose own season was ruined when Tony Romo was broken into a million pieces and their backup quarterback Brandon Weeden had yet to be booted off the team for his astronomical incompetency (Hux had held Poe's hair back that night as he vomited from all the celebratory champagne they had consumed, and rambled between heaves about how maybe Weeden's high baseball ERA translated into being a terrible quarterback). The team desperately needs a new quarterback, seeing as their own is nearing forty and slower than rush hour on the 405, and their position in the draft, though born out of humiliating circumstances, puts them in a place to throw an copious amount of money at whichever player they want. The draft class is good this year, and there are several promising QBs to choose from; the only problem is Hux and Poe cannot agree which one to pick.

In the world of football, hands on owners are the worst kind; they interfere with the coaches and staff, micromanaging every aspect to the detriment to their teams. When Poe had hired Hux on as GM three years ago, Hux made him swear, one hand on a bible and the other on his mother's grave that he would not interfere with Hux, any of the coaching stuff, or their COO Phasma. Hux had made him promise that he would be the owner every team wanted: the kind that funeled a river of money into the team and generally stayed out of it. _I'll get you the Lombardi,_ Hux had promised in return, _just let me do my work._

Poe has done his best to be the aloof team owner who only brings their business partners to games and mingles in high society, he really has. But Poe grew up in a Los Angeles bereft of a professional football team, a city that had their club torn from them and cast off to the faraway lands of Missouri. He dreamed every night of an LA team, of them winning that shiny, gorgeous trophy, of streamers flying through the air as a parade of triumphant players rolled through Downtown. He inherited his father's modest Airlines and made it into a huge global competitor, one of the top in the industry, and yet that was not his greatest pride. His greatest pride was the _Rebels_ in all of their lackluster mediocrity. He had brought back football to Los Angeles (never mind that the traitor Rams returned three years later); how could he _not_ get a little handsy with his team?

His General Manager though does not abide by that kind of nonsense, and they have butted heads over the last few years about small things, like coaching picks and trades. Hux usually wins their arguments, easily pummeling Poe into submission with the help of their Head Coach when necessary, but this draft has been a point of tension between them. Poe has been reading up on too many draft blogs, has been too plugged into the NFL Networks constant cycle of Mock Drafts and Mock-Mock Drafts. Poe knows they need a quarterback, has been told that by all of his staff and by many angry fans in Los Angeles that he has had the misfortune to run into at In-N-Out. Hux and him _should_ be on the same page about this.

"Well, seeing as you haven't done the greatest job, maybe you need my help," Poe sniffs, turning his wind nipped nose high in the air.

Hux glares at him and smacks him on the shoulder, habitual by now because of how many times they have had this stupid argument out in public.

"We are not drafting Ben Solo," Hux snarls.

"Whoa, don't say his name in public," Poe says, affecting a mocking impersonation of Hux's suppressed British accent.

Hux stares at Poe, walking near the curb and looking like a high end puff ball, and briefly imagines pushing him into the street just to watch him get mowed over by a bus.

Ben Solo is this year's Heisman winner, a quarterback straight out of UCLA. He has a mean throw, and an even meaner attitude, and rumors about tantrums during practice and poor sportsmanship have been circulating. Hux and the coaches of the _Rebels_ have watched hours of his tape, and while his playing is impressive, he lacks refinement. It would be tempting to draft him, let him warm a bench for a few years and gain some of that much needed finesse, but Hux worries about the team picking up the next Johnny Football, a seemingly great pick that implodes on them, taking with him the guaranteed millions of his contract. Poe might be rich, but there are caps in place for a reason, and the team cannot afford to blow their money on a kid with _attitude problems._

"It's already been decided," Hux hisses at Poe, "just drop it. We're going with Mitaka."

Randy Mitaka, a star quarterback in the making. He does not have the same kind of heat in his throw as Solo, but he is a team player and less likely to go on a cocaine bender midseason. Poe thinks he is a wet blanket with no showmanship, but personas can be cultivated, and Hux is willing to take a safer pick.

Poe groans in frustration and scowls unattractively at Hux. "He is so boring, Hux. Did you know he got a 4.0 in school and never had a girlfriend?"

"He sounds like he was dedicated to his craft," Hux snips at Poe.

"He sounds like he is incredibly _boring_. Angelinos aren't going to want to watch some goodie two shoes run around a field. They want someone like them!"

"Oh, you mean total assholes who throw tantrums?"

Poe smiles, and stops his winter clothes encumbered waddle to jab a gloved finger at Hux's chest. "Exactly. They want one of them. Someone who is going to do whatever it takes to get by, someone who is so passionate that they are yelling on the field."

"You know what I think Angelinos want?" Hux asks rhetorically, because he and Poe have had this exact conversation a hundred times, "They want to see a fucking Super Bowl win. You can't get a Super Bowl win if your quarterback goes AWOL."

"When we draft him," Poe says, like it is actually going to happen, _Jesus Christ_ \- "We make a first year contingency that he is babysat. No outings or appearances without a team appointed manager. Tons of teams do that, and it works out fine."

" _If_ we draft him, that would be a huge waste of resources and money, for someone who could turn out to be a flop anyways."

Hux knows he's right, and sees some of his logic start to seep into Poe's resolve. He bites his lip, another nervous habit that should look sexual but makes him look like a child with his eyebrows bunched together over his eyes.

"I am the owner, and I think I should have some sort of say here," Poe insists weakly.

"You do have say; the coaches and I listen to everything you suggest, we just don't follow it," Hux replies, and he pats Poe condescendingly on the arm, like the blathering, rich baby he is.

Poe stops in his tracks and glares at him. "You are the worst GM."

"And you are a terrible owner," Hux replies, knowing this part of the conversation by rote too. They have _this_ particular talk at least once a week.

Unfortunately for Hux, they have stopped in front of a _Garrett_ shop, which is wafting the tempting smells of buttered popcorn. Poe looks into the store, and then at Hux, and grimaces.

"I'm still hungry," he simply complains, and walks into the store to buy the biggest tub of popcorn he can. Hux rolls his eyes and treads in after him.

 

* * *

 

It is now Draft Day, and Hux is in a blue suit, seated beside Poe, who is sporting his own black suit with a red tie and the _Rebels_ symbol pinned onto the lapel of his jacket. He looks a little sick, and Hux is trying to ignore the way Poe thinks he is being sly when he reaches into his briefcase that is filled with yesterday's left over popcorn, and shovels it into his mouth. They are seated in their booth, Hux, Poe, and their coaches, alongside Carol Phasma, who is sporting a red dress and looking fearsome. Between Hux's stoic face and her bloodthirsty one, they almost look intimidating, as long as no one looks to Poe nervously munching between them. The draft is about to start and they are all twitching with anticipation.

The Commissioner walks on stage and as is the tradition among their kind, everyone in the room boos him. Hux and Phasma smirk while Poe boos besides them; the last time Poe had seen the commissioner, they had yelled at each other in the convention room of a Marriot while the rest of the owners looked on.  The mousy man makes his opening statements, something about integrity and the quality of this draft class, and Hux spaces out for most of it until he hears the fateful words, " _Los Angeles Rebels,_ you are on the clock."They have ten minutes to make their pick, and Hux is inclined to drag out the whole ten minutes just to fuck with the rest of the league. They already know who they are going to draft, but stringing everyone along is one of Hux's favorite past times.

Phasma and Hux bend their heads close together and start chatting. "How pissed do you think the Rams will be for us drafting Mitaka?" Phasma asks Hux.

"I'm hoping for death threats," Hux says pleasantly back.

A minute has ticked by, and Phasma reaches for the phone on the table to call up Mitaka and offer him a draft position. She has the phone only inches off the table before Poe slaps his hand on top of hers and slams the phone back down.

"Mr. Dameron?" she growls out, and it sounds like _what the fuck_ coming from her.

Poe looks queasy, whether from stress or stale popcorn Hux is not sure, but he frantically hisses, "We are not drafting Mitaka."

Hux can feel his eyes bulging out his head, he's sure of it, and Phasma looks murderous.

"Poe," he hisses, leaning in and trying to pry his bosses hand off of Phasma's, "We are drafting Mitaka, end of story."

"No we aren't!" Poe says, and struggles to get his hand off from under Hux's grip. Hux thinks of how it must look, how the NFL Networks cameras are probably capturing their struggle for the phone, how the commentators are probably talking right now about supposed 'Organizational Rifts' within the _Rebels._

"I am the owners," Poe insists, "I pay your salaries. You answer to me, and we are drafting Ben Solo!"

"Back out of it Poe," Hux snaps. "Don't be a Snyder."

(Daniel Snyder, the owners of the deplorable _Redskins_ , is the worst kind of owner to be, somehow even worse than the likes of Jerry Jones. He has singlehandedly ruined any good that was in his team.)

Poe flushes an angry shade of red and snarls. "I am the owner!" he insists.

"We've hit the six minute mark," their head coach says in a worried voice.

Hux has to make a choice now. He could pummel Poe into the ground, bloody him and knock him unconscious, but that would most likely take up the remainder of their draft time, and risk them forfeiting their first round pick. No pick is worse than a bad pick. The other choice is to cave today, let Poe get his way, and then hog tie him and lock him up in his hotel room for the rest of the draft. Hux looks between Phasma, his coaching staff, and then the phone they are struggling with, and curses at Poe.

"Fine you asshole," Hux says after, "But this is on _you._ "

Poe looks ecstatic, like a child who just got his way after a tantrum, and Hux folds his arms like the defeated parent he is. Phasma takes the phone and calls up the organizational staff back home to let them know their pick, and then writes on their draft card _Ben Solo_ , _University of California Los Angeles, Quarterback_. She hands it to their runner, who sprints up to the NFL personnel table. Their other runner goes to the Rams to let them know who they have picked, and Hux can see their GM look surprised and then ecstatic.

Hux and Poe get up to go to the stage, taking with them the jersey with a fat number one on the back, and a _Rebels_ cap to present to their newest player.

"I just want you to know that if Ben Solo gives me _any_ kind of trouble, I will murder you," Hux says.

Poe smiles and shakes the Commissioners hand, forgetting his hatred of the man for a moment as he leans in and smiles at Hux. "I'd like to see you try."

The commissioner takes the microphone on stage and announces to the audience, "With the first overall pick of the 2016 draft, the _Los Angeles Rebels_ draft Ben Solo, UCLA, Quarterback."

The response is predictable, an even amount of excited cheering and raucous booing, and Hux watches as Ben Solo gets up from where he is seated with what he presumes is his family, and walks towards the stage. It's all a quick procession of photographs and handshakes after that, and Poe and Hux stand flanked on either side of Ben Solo, who is holding his jersey out to the cameras. He is tall and broad, hulking for a quarterback, and Hux sees the way his muscles strain against his suit jacket. He has long wavy hair like some kind of 1970's throwback, and he's barely smiling at the camera.

(On the front page of the sports section tomorrow will be a photograph of Ben Solo, blank faced and stoic, with Poe Dameron to his right with a wild smile and gripping his arm proudly, and Brendol Hux to his left, scowling at Ben Solo like this is the biggest mistake he has ever made.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me and talk about Kylux and Football on my [tumblr.](celloing.tumblr.com)


End file.
